siriuslysmutty

[siriuslysmutty]

Soap teasing u abt some insanely fruity cocktail ur drinking so u ask "do you want a sip?" And before he can grab ur glass u grip his jaw and pull him into a kiss. Literally forcing the drink into his mouth in front of the whole table, grinning when he swallowed and you lick into him for a moment to savor the taste.

Anyways ghost has to literally scruff soap to stop him from going down on u in the middle of a public bar lol

[siriuslysmutty]

emma's 14 day manifestation challenge (no one's questioning you again after this. not even you!!!)

a little foreword and word of encouragement ,

14 days!!!!!!! no loopholes, no well what if bullshit, no begging the universe to like you back, just you and your assumptions and a world that obeys.

this is for the people who've already seen the signs and still doubts themselves, this is for the people who wants receipts, this is for the part of you that knooooooows something big is trying to click into place.

we're manifesting to prove we're the source. you're here to stop performing power and start embodying it.

what's in store ,

14 days

1 intention to dominate per day

1 action (micro shift // test)

1 affirmation to run on loop

all backed by loa logic, no placebo fluff

no skipping, no spiralling, no but hows. you commit. you command and then you watch.

week one , we're proving ourselves

[ day one ] my world obeys me intention , the 3d reflects my thoughts, not the other way around. test , assume you'll hear a specific word today (butterfly, ocean, apple, whatever) affirmation , my assumptions are law. i think it, i see it.　 

[ day two ] i'm lucky to the point of suspicion intention , things go right for me by default test , assume you'll avoid inconvenience. no traffic, no long lines, no wifi crashes affirmation , things always work out for me. even if they shouldn't.　 

[ day three ] people like me for no reason intention , everyone is nice to me today test , assume compliments, extra kindness, good shit only affirmation , people treat me as if i'm someone they've already decided to love.　 

[ day four ] i get what i want without asking twice intention , test instant manifestation test , choose one small, specific desire and assume it's already on the way (free coffee, exact parking spot, dm from xyz) affirmation , i don't chase, i attract, and i attract fast.　 

[ day five ] my energy bends intention , assume your presence has impact test , walk into a room and assume everyone notices you affirmation , when i walk in, energy shifts in my favour.　 

[ day six ] i said it's mine. guess what intention , make a bold declaration test , post it anywhere (on your tumblr or tiktok or whatever. even a close friends with zero people in it). ex: "i'm getting x." hold the assumption NO MATTER what affirmation , the moment i claim it, it's locked in.　 

[ day seven ] reality is simply my mirror intention , detach from results, they're already written test , when something goes wrong, don't react, stay in your assumption. affirmation , my reaction writes the story, i choose the ending.　 

week two , deciding you're god

[ day eight ] the universe is obsessed with me intention , test synchronicity test , pick a sign to appear today, not a maybe, just declare it will affirmation , the universe follows my lead, always.　 

[ day nine ] money loves me intention , change money assumptions test , expect unexpected cash. refund, discount, gift. affirmation , money finds me. i don't look for it.　 

[ day ten ] time bends for me intention , control time test , decide something happens faster than it should today affirmation , time is weak and it folds when i speak.　 

[ day eleven ] i am unquestionable intention , test social confidence test , assume everyone agrees with you, even if you say something bold affirmation , when i speak, people agree.　 

[ day twelve ] i shift reality because i say so intention , choose one big desire and then declare it done. no maybes and no manifestings. this is done. test , track every tiny sign that it's already unfolding. affirmation , this is mine, everything is catching up.　 

[ day thirteen ] i don't need logic, why would i? i have authority intention , assume the impossible can happen test , pick something that feels too big and start treating it like a basic right affirmation , i make the rules, technics are optional.　 

[ day fourteen ] i am the cause intention , reflect on the whole challenge test , list every single thing that shifted. then choose what's next. affirmation , i did that. and i'll do it again.　 

[siriuslysmutty]

18+ NSFW

Thinking about being stuck on deployment for month with the guys. In a shitty little safe house you painstakingly getting off the old fashion way - desperately rubbing your clit in the dark corner you bedded down.

The whole place is deathly silent so your biting your lip and touching yourself so painstakingly slow and carefully so you don't get caught. Cause it's been a month of cramped quarters and theres only so much of saving each others asses on high stakes missions that you don't gain some kind of crush on each and everyone of your team mates.

They're grouchy and ornery and you can taste the testosterone on their stir crazy sweat. Salt and vinegar and spicey.

You build your climax slowly to the little things like that. So desperate that your swollen clit throbs with every swipe and pinch.

And then it happens, right at the crest of your orgasm...

A tiny, raspy, choking moan leaves you. You expect it to echo and emphasize your own horror but instead there is immediately a chorus strained cries.

"Oh fuck!"

"Shite!"

"Steamin' Jesus!"

And one very broken groan.

[siriuslysmutty]

i'll be your first req then kekekekeke <3 thinking about it simon riley YOU HAVE PUT IN MY HEAD.

it/its

unspecified monster!simon x f!reader, explicit sexual content, courting rituals, size difference, dub/noncon, dead dove: do not eat, ao3

Isolated in your boss' cabin, you're intent on finishing up your manuscript for submission. You didn't account for the hulking woodland creature that decided you’d be a perfect mate.

    Sleep encompassed every crevice of your brain; you’d passed out on the moth-eaten couch after hours of being rocked side to side in your car while driving up to your boss’ secluded cabin—she practically exiled you to the woods after failing to deliver a manuscript of your new book for the third time this year. The public was slobbering for a new mind-bending and bone-chilling novel from you, and your boss was slobbering for the money, so she was going to get this book from you by any means necessary.

    On arrival—only taking a perfunctory look at the rickety cabin bundled in between towering trees before hurrying inside—you’d done nothing but dump your bags on the floor, hurriedly lit a fire in the fireplace to save yourself from the cold stiffening your joints, then immediately crashed face-down on the dusty couch.

    Now, hours after the moon had risen, you’re unpleasantly aware of the room’s humidity, of the cotton-like thirst in your mouth, of the sweat pooling in your neck, and the prickle in your eyes when you peel them open.

    You sluggishly lift your torso from the couch while belatedly wiping drool off your cheek, and you attempt to take stock of your surroundings, but your mind’s too disoriented and your vision’s too bleary.

    You lethargically swivel your head from the stairs to the door on the other side of the room, your heart stuttering when you see two glowing adjoining orbs—a stark difference to the dark that surrounds them—your hazy consciousness ignores it. Still, something innate in you buds in fear, but sleep’s embrace drags you back down to the couch before you could think much of it and enwraps you in its hold. 

—

    Your nose scrunches in confusion at the cleanliness of the cotton wrapped around your knees.

    The smell of bloody iron pervaded your senses so strongly, it woke you from your sleep thinking you’d gotten your period early.

    You pull your pants back up before washing your hands to physically check every inch of your body, thinking you had a gaping bloody wound hidden somewhere, sighing when you came up empty.

    Is it the plumbing, or do I have a bloody animal carcass on my front porch?

    You hemmed and hawed over checking; what the actual fuck would I even do if there was an animal corpse outside my door?

    Deciding to simply ignore the smell and the possibility of a carcass lying fifteen feet away from you, you riffled through your meagre groceries to find breakfast you could hopefully stomach before sitting down on the carpeted floor in front of the fireplace with your laptop—ancient, and practically falling of the bone—and a few books you needed for research; a dictionary—given you’ve been virtually cut off from the rest of the world and have zero connection, and some titles about the mythos of haunted mountains—spanning the americas to the middle east.

    You force yourself into a flow state of writing—not wanting to fail to deliver again and be thrown out on your ass by your editor. 

—

    The gnawing in your stomach becomes too painful to ignore, you drag your aching eyes away from the laptop’s too-bright screen to the room surrounding you—when did it get so dark?—you stretch your numb legs and crack your spine by twisting side to side, you try to get up but the momentum makes you dizzy, you sit back down to gather yourself, mentally bemoning your lack of work stamina.

    Just as you were about to try again, a heavy thud emitting from the outside snapped your gaze to the door.

    It comes again, this time accompanied by a grunt. The blood rushing to your head runs cold.

    A bang to the door, your body flinches back in response.

    It takes another for your limbs to unstiffen and your mind to frantically look for a place to hide.

    You haven’t familiarized yourself with the cabin yet, you don’t know its secrets and its crevices, and every hiding spot that comes to you feels too obvious; the cabinet, under the kitchen table, in the linen closet, under the bed, in the bath tub with the shower curtain drawn.

    Bang.

    Sweat beads at your temple, and you start trembling.

    Bang.

    Bang.

    Bang.

    Each hit comes in quick succession and angrier than its predecessor.

    Bang.

    You take a split second to choose a spot from your terrible, no good options and dash to the linen closet.

    Bang.

    You open the door and shove yourself into its darkness before closing it as quietly as you can. Huddling in the corner, you try to calm your breathing.

    Bang.

    You hug your knees tighter to your chest and screw your eyes shut.

    The hits cease, and the only sound in your ears is your overwhelmingly quick heartbeat.

    You didn’t dare move, but you didn’t have much control over the quivers making their way through your body.

    Your frantic mind—in between drafting your last will and testament—latches onto the lack of the usual cacophony from the woods. You’d gotten used to the wind ruffling the tree leaves, of birds chirping, insects churring, and the light scuttling of woodland creatures, but now it’s completely and unnaturally still.

    Tears welled in your eyes.

    Then—

    BANG.

    A small shriek escapes from your lips, and you quickly slap your hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop any more from following.

    The sounds of a heavy gait and a dense mass scraping across the wooden floorboards permeate the cabin.

    With each footstep that grows closer, you shrink more and more into yourself.

    A creak sounds when the intruder stops on the other side of the closet door, then a hefty thud when he releases whatever it was he was dragging to the floor.

    His body stilled, producing only deep clunking rasps.

    Your bladder stings when you realize you didn’t lock the door.

    The knob rattles before it’s let go, then the door dips when the knob is gripped properly, pulled to the opposing side.

    Agonizingly slow, it turns before being released to let the door independently screak open and reveal the body standing outside.

    Under the archway stands a hulking manthing, the naked heaving chest and the scantily covered crotch didn’t register as deeply in your mind as his—its face did.

    The grotesque sight curdled your stomach; a decaying, sundered skull was crudely hewed onto its face. Painfully so, the sulcus where skin and bone were fused was held together by puckered scar tissue.

    Your body freezes in hopes of evading detection from the membranous eyes staring directly at you.

    Then, its jaw yawns lightly, revealing sharp, jagged teeth, and nips at the air, making you recoil and release a whimper.

    Its head tilts to the side in a sudden drop, then it gestures with its paw of a hand to the hunk of bleeding flesh lying at its feet, and nips the air again.

    When you don’t move, a gruff, “Eat,” disgorges from behind its edged molars. The word sounded anomalous coming from its mouth, like it should only be communicating in barks and growls.

    “W–what?” At this point, with your barbed throat, speaking is a herculean task for you.

    Its gargantuan body ate up the entirety of the doorway’s space, and you couldn’t help but feel consternated at the primitive halo the full moon’s light illuminated its body with.

    “Eat.” It repeated.

    You only stared in response.

    It huffs, in an almost disgruntled way, then grabs the unidentified carcass by its hind legs to drag it to the unlit fireplace. You couldn’t tell what it was—used to be, only seeing mangled bloody flesh.

    You don’t move from your burrow in the corner. You hear him lumbering in the living room for a while, with sounds of grunts and various thumps making their way to you.

    Then, the crackling of a fire and the aroma of cooking meat invade your senses.

    You lowly sigh in dismay when it makes your stomach grumble.

    Just as the smell borders on overwhelming, the wooden floorboards groan under the footfalls clomping toward you.

    Its imposing corse finds itself in the doorway once again, it intends to cross the threshold to you, but it stills at your shirk.

    “Come. Eat.”

    You shake your head in refusal, not looking up from the floor.

    It growls, then, decision made, it peregrinates the entrance.

    Bare feet enter your line of vision, and you close your eyes and curl in on yourself rather than keep looking.

    Impossibly large hands snake their way under your arms and lift you from your spot.

    “What the fuck!” You gasp irately. “Put me down you– you beast!”  

    You struggle in its grip, it holds you with its arms outstretched, your body burns under the physical heat of its touch, and a miasma of dripping iron and rot dazes you.

    It drops you on the carpeted floor, and your attempt to crawl away is cruelly squashed by the hand curled around your ankle. You try to shake it off to no avail.

    It waits for you to exert yourself and settle; eventually, you do—the combined effects of gut-churning hunger and the dizziness of smells make you weak.

    When you lean against the bottom of the couch, your chest heaving and cheeks wet, it holds its paw to your face and nudges a chunk of smoky meat to your lips.

    It follows when you wrench your head from side to side—scrunching your features in refusal.

    Tired of chasing your mouth, it huffs and rolls its filmy eyes—an eerie imitation of humanity, but it wears it crudely. You wonder where it picked up these words and mannerisms from; was it from the owner of the desecrated skull on its face? Or another one of its victims? Does it wear it as a trophy of its kills or to hide its grisliness? A mixture of both?

    The hand previously holding your ankle hostage shifts to wrap around the nape of your neck and hold you in place.

    “Eat.” Its hand tightens around your neck in warning.

    You slowly unhinge your jaw and let it place the meat in between your teeth, you tear off half the meat offered to you, and lightly moan at the rich taste.

    You go in for more bites after you swallow, this time faster, and eat the rest.

    Its gaze settles heavily on you, and its thumb caresses the side of your neck.

    It feeds you more and more, and you can’t restrain yourself from nipping at its fingers in the midst of licking the juices off them—it doesn’t mind, it was enraptured with victualing you with cooked flesh from the palm of its hand like a dog.

    The air feels heedy, and deep in your heart, you feel a shift—your fate sealed.

    You eat til your stomach aches, til you whine and turn your head away when it tries to feed you more. It finally acquiesces to you and eagerly licks off the amalgam of the meat’s drip and your hungering spit saturating its hand. 

    You drowsily stare at it, how did those fangs not tear its skin off? 

    Its hand moves from the back of your neck to fit itself under your chin, lightly squeezing the fat of your cheeks. You whine when it leans in and licks the grease from your lips.

    You can feel the smell of it—of rust and earthly rot—infusing into your skin, sinking into your blood through your pores.

    Then, it presses its lips against you viciously, and tongues at them. When you don’t let it in, it nips at your lips and digs its fingers in your cheeks hard, growling.

    You keen a quiet No, but a particularly sharp nip has you gasp against it, and it takes the opportunity, bullying its tongue into your mouth.

    It kisses you hungrily, all spit and clashing teeth. It twists your head to its liking til an angle satisfies it and kisses you even deeper.

    Its free hand pulls at your shirt, stretching it to its limits and growling something that vaguely sounds like Off. You shake your head in refusal as much as you can in its grip.

    It frustratingly pulls til you hear a riiiip, discarding your shirt, then quickly doing the same to your bra.

    You keen against its mouth while it paws at the fleshy parts of you—your hips, then your stomach, and then your breasts.

    A manic thought passes your mind about how it seems to try and be gentle while fondling you.

    It drags you from your perch against the couch to lie on the carpet, and bends its hulking figure in between your thighs to wedge its muzzle at the flesh conjoining your neck and shoulder. You can feel hot puffs of breath on your skin in between light kisses and nips. Through your hazy vision, you see the muscles resting beneath his pale back tensing.

    It pulls away from your throat to wrench your pants and underwear off—it didn’t seem to have an understanding of human clothing, content to simply grab and rip.

    It does the same to the scrap of fabric offering him the dregs of modesty and your stomach plummets at the heavy, flushed cock hanging between its legs. You heedlessly try to clench your thighs shut at the sight, but its body hinders you.

    It tucks its hands under your knees to fold your legs towards you—offering itself an unbidden view.

    The sound of sniffing fills your ears and, to your absolute horror, it bends down, closer to the source of what had it so intrigued—your cunt.

    It inches closer and closer, each inhale growing deeper, til it buries its gnarled face into your folds. The skull’s porcelain-like surface feels strange on you, so do the hot puffs of breath ghosting your cunt, and you can’t help but squirm away.

    Displeased at your fleeing, it pulls you back and brands its forearm across your lower abdomen while its other, calloused hand holds you open by pulling one thigh away from your body.

    You squirm when it licks the length of your slit.

    It clumsily laps at you—its ministrations fueled by unadulterated hunger and curiosity.

    You keen when its tongue flits over your clit, and it sinks its proverbial teeth into your reaction, intent on having you repeat it and more.

    It laps at you from the bottom up, sucking on your clit when it meets it before repeating its motions, and your hips fight between pulling away from the onslaught of pleasure and rocking against it.

    You flinch violently when the bottom edge of its skull snags on your clit, you cry out but it only nuzzles into you further, its two faces grinding against you, before laving at your slit once more.

    Its tongue catches on your fluttering hole, and it hums in delight before breaching your entrance and licking you from the inside. 

    An odd, continuous growling sound emits from deep in its chest—purring, you realise dilatorily.

    The resulting vibrations has your spine arching and your cunt clenching on its tongue and growing into a soppy mess, it buries itself deeper in your folds at the feeling.

    You feel something in your abdomen grow taut, and your chest grows feverish. Its relentless explorations grow stifling when it removes its tongue and starts to feed its finger inside you. A whine trickles from your throat when it adds another too soon.

    You grind against it—at its tongue lapping on your clit and the fingers moving inside you, with your hands fisted at either side of your hips. You fall over the edge when it suctions its lips around your clit, the tightness in you unravels in molten pleasure, and a loud moan is ripped from your throat.

    Your body melts to the carpet, boneless, and your chest heaves, drawing more of its metallic scent into your lungs.

    From the rim of your frail cognizance, you’re becoming uncomfortably aware of the ongoing touches and licks at your oversensitive folds.

    You weakly whine and push at its bowed head, but it ignores you, persevering in devouring your flesh.

    It doesn’t take long for you to come again, tender as you are.

    Finally, it pulls away from your twitching body, and the sight is obscene—it was soaked in your wetness from the bottom of its skull down to its neck, and it was panting raspy breaths.

    Its filmy gaze settled on you with blooming heat, and your body tensed. It rises its torso further up to grab its fat cock; keeping you spread for it with one hand to your thigh.

    It pulls its cock to you and slaps it against your blistering cunt, making you yowl—the feeling too intolerable on your aching cunt. It ruts into your puffy folds, saturating its flesh with your slick.

    Then, it presses the engorged tip to your hole, and you whimper, digging your nails into your palms.

    It pushes in you with a deep grunt, gradually feeding its cock into you with considerable restraint, hand fixt to your thigh and the other gripping your hip, burying itself inside you in a glacial pace til it bottoms out. It groans, and your eyes roll back at the way you feel stretched around its girth—you shudder a moan at the tautness.

    It arcs its back over you, draping its torso over yours, and licks into your mouth—you can taste the sweet tang of your slick on its tongue.

    Your back burns against the carpet when its ruts push you up and down, and something lodges in your throat and screws your eyes shut when its hand pushes an ident into your lower abdomen, feeling itself rock into you, how deep its cock imbeds in you.

    Its thrusts steadily increase in speed, and the isolatable squelches spilling from the cradle of your thighs scald your cheeks.

    Breathy ah, ah, ah’s are punched out of you with each thrust, and when you peel your sticky eyes open, you see the gnashing teeth hovering above you. It bends down its head to cup its teeth on the side of your neck, and tongues at your jumping pulse. The need to bite—to taste your blood aches its gums.

    At its recent thrust, it holds itself, lodged deep inside you, and grinds against you.

    Its teeth slowly close against your flesh, like it can’t help itself. Its arms wound around you, plastering its chest to yours, its skin catching on your sensitive nipples, and you feel delirious at the way its presence encompasses your every sense.

    It grows frantic with every thrust, breathing heavy and digging sharp into your neck, til its entire body seizes when it reaches its peak, your screams falling on deaf ears when its teeth sink into you, flooding its mouth with the warmth of your blood.

    It gorges itself on your blood while lightly rutting into you, and you feel the haze of inertia begin to drown your mind, before it pulls away, it licks your wound once, twice, then lets you melt to the floor.

    You feel your limp body being swathed by its huge arms and cradled into its chest, it rolls on its back and takes you with it, fully laying your body on his, thighs spread on hips and its barely softened cock tucked inside you, stuppering its spend.

    One hand pets your hair, dragging itself from the crown of your head to the nape of your neck again and again, and you melt into it.

    The chest beneath you rumbles in deep content, and the last thing you feel before its soft touches lull you to sleep is a finger prodding at the gums of your teeth, sizing up your canines.

had something similar to this in my ideas doc for a while, so I decided to bastardize it. I would’ve loved to go into a deep dive of the reader’s psyche, & the general atmosphere but I fear that would’ve taken me months to write out lol & this is the fastest i've written a piece EVER. may rewrite after a while who knows

[siriuslysmutty]

Yo to all the cod fans out there.👋

I'd like to take a minute to say something that might upset a few people.

Please stop coddling the 40+ yo men who k!ll for a living.🙏

Like, it's okay to sympathize or even relate to a character with certain traumas, but nearly infantilizing them is a bit far.

If you don't like them being sexualized them you don't have to sexualized them, but please do not hate on those who do.

These are fictional men with fictional back stories, some of which don't line up with their comic book counterparts.

So when someone says something along the lines of, "Guys, we really shouldn't sexualize them, they have trauma!"

It makes me think, "Huh?"

Because a person/character that has been traumatized can be, and is allowed to be sexual or seen as sexual despite what they've gone through.

I know that many fans of cod don't want beloved characters to be seen as sex objects, and that's totally reasonable!

But these are grown men we're talking about.

Grown men whose jobs are k!lling people.

If some of yall have really do want to advocate for those who can't advocate for themselves, then there's other ways to do things.

You have the options of spreading awareness about certain issues and donating to those who need it.

You can tell the stories of people who are afraid to open up and make their voices heard!

Basically, be kind and open-minded to others, okay?

Hopefully, my point got across to those who wanted to hear it, and I hope that yall have a good day, afternoon, and goodnight!

👋😗

[siriuslysmutty]

This is so fuckin' funny

[siriuslysmutty]

When I applied for the FMLA (family medical leave) for US before I had my daughter, they have 2 options. 6 weeks and 12 weeks. Its unpaid and its basically just a placeholder so you don't get fired. I, after a complicated pregnancy (I was on bed rest) left like 3 days early as I was being induced at 37 weeks to use my leave. I put in for the full 12 weeks and got notified a week after having her that I was due back to work at the 6 week mark. When I'd be 5 weeks PP.

I was barely off bedrest. (They extended it out for 2 weeks PP.)

Source

[siriuslysmutty]

new fic concept i've been rattling around:

soap's been sleeping around in his manwhore ways, and the constant sound of his bunk creaking has disrupted your sleep long enough. Over a drunken game of "truth or dare," you bet he can't go a month without having sex.

Little do you know, you're about to go on a monthlong tour, crammed in a tiny tent in the Afghan desert.

what do we think?

[siriuslysmutty]

THERE ARENT ENOUGH BROWN EYED LOVE INTERESTS OUT THERE! BROWN EYES ARE SO PRETTY! SO! FUCKIN! PRETTY!

me showing this clip to all the writers that say my man has blue eyes😡😡 he’s my brown eyed bf!!

[siriuslysmutty]

Ghost, during a mission that’s going badly: Right, lads. I think we are well and truly fucked

Soap, under his breath: I would be if you’d just give me a chance

Ghost: what

Soap: what

Gaz, frantically reloading: No. Nuh-uh. I’m not dying here. I refuse to let that be the last conversation I hear

[siriuslysmutty]

Thinking about John Price looking at you like this after you've been teasing and flirting with him all night.

You think you have the upper hand, but John knows better.

You have no idea how much trouble you're about to be in.

(you'll enjoy every second of it)

[siriuslysmutty]

[siriuslysmutty]

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke in your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke on your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke on your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke on your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke on your face while he's balls deep

Price who blows his cigar smoke on your face while he's balls deep

That is all

[siriuslysmutty]

Can you imagine him with Livestock Guardian Soap though?

Look, I love every version of big scary animal hybrid simon as the next person, but have we considered sheep hyrbid!simon?

Sheep!simon who is used to people assuming things about him. He's big, a cathedral of a person, so people assume hes got hybrid genes to match. He's heard plenty of guesses, wolf, panther, tiger, bear. He never confirms anything, never denies it either. Its helpful for people to be unaware of his true status, a harsh stigma around prey hybrids and especially domestic ones.

Sheep!simon who hasn't made a hybrid sound in years. Who keeps his hair shorn to the root because if it grows out its into tight coils of blonde that remind him too much of his mother. His mother who he watched suffer each day for being a sheep, and thats the only trait she gave him. He got his eyes, his bulk, his face from his father. But the one thing from his mother? It feels too shameful, too weak to ever accept. It eats at him, but there's nothing he can do.

Sheep!simon who eats alone. He wears a mask anyways, so no one bothers him to eat with them. He finds some secluded nook, and makes quick work of a plate stacked with greens. On the grueling missions, packed too close with others to grab food without someone seeing his plate, simon forces himself to grab meats and a sliver of greens. The vague diet of a predator species. He eats everything, feels too guilty about wasting food not to, and simply ignores the painful twists of his stomach at eating stuff hes really not suited for.

Sheep!simon who feels anxious when hes not in a group, but feels even worse being near people he doesn't trust (everyone). He never truly rests, never relaxes completely as his mind fights with itself. Its exhausting, but hes felt this way since he was small, and has grown apathetic to it.

Just....consider it. (Yapping abt the specific sheep he'd be under the cut.)

Personally I envisioned him to be a kerry hill sheep!

Mostly bc the face markings remind me of his mask lol, but also bc they dont have horns! There's a unique dynamic that comes from ghost being a sheep hybrid that doesn't even have horns to defend himself that I find really compelling....they're also raised primarily for meat, which is another great metaphor or whatever abt ghost being made for the military, designed for slaughter when hes no longer useful....

[siriuslysmutty]

Can you imagine him with Livestock Guardian Soap though?

Look, I love every version of big scary animal hybrid simon as the next person, but have we considered sheep hyrbid!simon?

Sheep!simon who is used to people assuming things about him. He's big, a cathedral of a person, so people assume hes got hybrid genes to match. He's heard plenty of guesses, wolf, panther, tiger, bear. He never confirms anything, never denies it either. Its helpful for people to be unaware of his true status, a harsh stigma around prey hybrids and especially domestic ones.

Sheep!simon who hasn't made a hybrid sound in years. Who keeps his hair shorn to the root because if it grows out its into tight coils of blonde that remind him too much of his mother. His mother who he watched suffer each day for being a sheep, and thats the only trait she gave him. He got his eyes, his bulk, his face from his father. But the one thing from his mother? It feels too shameful, too weak to ever accept. It eats at him, but there's nothing he can do.

Sheep!simon who eats alone. He wears a mask anyways, so no one bothers him to eat with them. He finds some secluded nook, and makes quick work of a plate stacked with greens. On the grueling missions, packed too close with others to grab food without someone seeing his plate, simon forces himself to grab meats and a sliver of greens. The vague diet of a predator species. He eats everything, feels too guilty about wasting food not to, and simply ignores the painful twists of his stomach at eating stuff hes really not suited for.

Sheep!simon who feels anxious when hes not in a group, but feels even worse being near people he doesn't trust (everyone). He never truly rests, never relaxes completely as his mind fights with itself. Its exhausting, but hes felt this way since he was small, and has grown apathetic to it.

Just....consider it. (Yapping abt the specific sheep he'd be under the cut.)

Personally I envisioned him to be a kerry hill sheep!

Mostly bc the face markings remind me of his mask lol, but also bc they dont have horns! There's a unique dynamic that comes from ghost being a sheep hybrid that doesn't even have horns to defend himself that I find really compelling....they're also raised primarily for meat, which is another great metaphor or whatever abt ghost being made for the military, designed for slaughter when hes no longer useful....

[siriuslysmutty]

Hooked up with a British guy once and he said "awh that's propah" while I ate his ass

[siriuslysmutty]

This felt like drinking your coffee with a morning joint in the sunlight. Thank you....

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Ghost who’s basically a rehomed cat.

You barely saw him at first. He’d come out of his room to do laundry, and you’d occasionally spot the back of him as he’s leaving for work, but otherwise it was like living with a ghost. A large, moody ghost who seemed to think eye contact was an unforgivable breach of privacy.

So you did the obvious thing, and coaxed him out with food. You’re lonely, he seems nice enough, and he’s also just conveniently there. It’s no big deal to make something that smells really wonderful when he’s home, and hope he’ll take the bait.

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.

Just like that.